The Games are On
by elinorofealdor
Summary: A new client is a woman from Sherlock's past, an old friend who's fallen in with dangerous people and been lured into a game in which Sherlock must become a participant, or allow her world (and possibly his) to crumble.
1. Chapter 1

Pacing back and forth before the black door, she shook her head, a few wisps of dark auburn hair loosing from her tight braids.

_This is utterly ridiculous_, she thought to herself.

Having stood outside the flat for five minutes, she knew sooner or later someone could notice her behavior and draw one of the residents to the door. She didn't want that. She wanted to present herself as collected and prepared for this meeting. Internally she was neither, but she could not let him see her unease.

Several deep breaths later, she finally raised her fist to the door then thought better of it and rang the bell – a quick ring, neither tentative nor forceful. She closed her eyes, listening for footsteps inside the flat. Unsure now of whether she desired him to answer the door or another of the flat's inhabitants, she took another deep breath, focusing herself and preparing for the best-worst scenario.

The door was flung open by a tall, striking, pale man. His piercing eyes afire with curiosity, yet almost instantly replaced with sheer confusion.

He opened his mouth to speak yet she cut in before a syllable could escape his lips.

"Hello, Sherlock," she stated with a gentle purr in her tone.

He swallowed, his eyes narrowing as the assessment and judging returned to his observant eyes. "What are you doing here?" he breathed.

She breezed past him into the narrow, dim corridor that led into the main flat.

"I was under the impression that this is where people come to seek your assistance," she remarked, glancing around the sparse entryway before turning back to meet his gaze. His expression bared his confusion as well as his attempt to work out her presence. Had her nerves not almost overwhelmed her, she might have laughed at his puzzlement.

He stood, the door still open as he clutched it, as though pondering which would cause more of a scene: throwing her out, or letting her stay. After a brief pause, he stood straighter, pulling his head back and upwards to increase his not inconsiderable height as he looked down at her.

"Yes, well some of them email first, but you are far from the first to turn up unannounced." He shut the door and gestured her toward the stairs.

She gave him a half-smile as she moved past to ascend the stairs. "You're trying to make me feel inadequate from the start," she remarked.

Pausing halfway up the staircase, she twisted back to cast him a disparaging glance. "That's hardly polite treatment for an old friend who's come to ask your help."

"As I recall, you seemed to have an impressive talent for getting yourself out of trouble without my help."

"Usually," she smiled. "But you generally excelled at getting me into it in the first place… and this instance is no exception."

"Is that why you so liked to leave me to fend for myself when we got into trouble? Because you blamed me for getting you into it in the first place?" He asked, not acknowledging the latter part of her statement.

"Harsh," she clicked. "I seem to recall many a time when I tried to get us both out unscathed, but you were always more focused on being seen as the cleverest person in any situation which, unfortunately, led to your getting into far more trouble than myself."

Stepping into the main room of the flat, she glanced around at the stacks of papers and books littering most surfaces. The desk was cluttered, the bookshelves only quasi-organized, yet the whole place felt like a home, not simply an office and research area.

"And if what I've been hearing is any indication," she continued. "That aspect hasn't changed in my absence."

He had moved into the kitchen and flicked on an electric kettle. She gave a quick study to the display of beakers, scopes, papers, and assorted science materials scattered on the small dining table in the center of the room.

"Making tea?" When he didn't reply, she took off her coat and laid it over the back of a leather chair in the sitting area. She crossed her arms, casting him a lingering gaze before shifting to the chair to sit. Once seated, she continued watching him as he moved about the small kitchen preparing tea.

"I suppose I should be flattered," she remarked. "You don't do this for most of your clients." He cast her a 'how would you know' glance and she returned it with a coy smile. Silence reigned as she watched him finish preparing the tea tray.

After he'd set down the tray and poured two cups, he sat down across from her, handing her a teacup on the way. They each took tentative sips before setting their cups down. She saw in his eyes the determination not to speak first, so she obliged with a polite smile. "So what have you worked out so far?"

His eyes narrowed before launching into the encyclopedic recitation.

"I know you're here for my help in some trouble you've gotten into, and you've already been to Mycroft about it. He didn't turn you down, but suggested you come to me instead of him. You didn't want to do it, possibly because of our complicated past, more likely because whatever your issue is you don't want me involved in it. Yet it's serious enough to bring you to Mycroft which means it either deals with a very serious personal issue you don't trust to anyone but your oldest acquaintances," she snickered at his choice of terminology but he continued without pause. "Or an issue which has direct bearing on the British government and which only someone with Mycroft's connections or my skills could assist with… most likely both."

He tilted his head slightly as his eyes flickered over her figure. "You've come here against your better judgment but you're not displeased at seeing me. Remarkable I'd say considering the last time we parted, so whatever brings you here is compelling enough for you to suppress your feelings."

He looked over her again and she saw a brief flash of puzzlement. "Unless… no," he shook his head before continuing.

"Without trying to sound dramatic it's fairly apparent that whatever you're here for is a life or death ordeal, and either involves myself and Mycroft directly or, as previously stated, can only be solved by one of us."

"Yes," she replied before he could go on. His eyes narrowed again and she nodded. "It's a puzzle especially for you, Sherlock. And it is life or death."

"And you didn't come to me first because…" he pressed.

"Had I not gone to Mycroft, would you have even let me in the door?" When he didn't reply, she glanced down into her teacup. "Thank you for confirming one aspect I had doubts about," she remarked.

When she looked up, Sherlock had again tilted his head, puzzled. She reached across the chairs to place the cup on the side table. Then, she slid out of the chair towards him. As she leaned down closer to him, he reached his arms out and placed them on her hips. No other part of him moved, but he did not push her away. Her grey eyes shimmered as her gaze locked with his before she tilted her head to the side.

"You did miss me," she whispered in his ear before placing a brief kiss on his jawbone just below his ear. She felt the prickles begin as her lips detached, even though his gaze remained steely when she pulled back.

"Absurd," he breathed as she settled back into the chair.

"Liar," she confirmed as his eyes briefly flickered over her form. She felt the petulance roll off him, yet she never could help calling him on his lies when she saw them, especially when they pertained to her.

"Why should I help you?" He postulated.

She smiled, a slight smile but one she intended him to see. "For exactly the reason you gave: you're the only one who can solve this. And," she held up her hand as he opened his mouth to object. "Before you go on a tear about me playing up our existing relationship or acting the damsel in distress to get your help, let me add the addendum that it's because you're the only one clever enough to solve my problem. It was designed for you specifically to solve."

Before Sherlock could respond, the doors downstairs opened and closed. Sherlock stood, indicating the chair he previously sat in, "Please have a seat, Miss Turner."

She sat down, eyeing him curiously as footsteps were heard on the stairs approaching the flat. "As you wish, Mister Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock," a voice called as the door to the flat opened. "You do remember what happens when you leave the door to the flat unlocked, right? Mrs. Hudson will have a fit, and we've already gone several rounds with her this week. If you could, for once, get it into that massive brain of yours that perhaps locking the door after you've come in is a good idea. Especially when we have a tendency to deal with people engaged in or avoiding serious criminal activity..."

The man's voice trailed off as he entered the room and saw Sherlock there with the woman.

"Um, hello," he said, trying to sound casual. He glanced to Sherlock and she could discern the question on his face.

"This is a potential client, John," Sherlock answered. "Doctor John Watson, Miss Maelin Turner."

"Ms," Maelin corrected as she rose to shake the hand John had extended as he moved toward her.

"Divorced?" John asked, not unsympathetically.

"Widowed," she replied with barely a hint of emotion in her voice.

She glanced to Sherlock who appeared to flinch slightly. Whether it was because of her admission which he had not picked up on, or because he felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy she could not tell.

"My condolences," John said as he gestured for her to sit down. Sherlock began pacing behind the chair opposite her. She took up the seat again as Watson asked, "Is that what brings you here?"

"No," she said simply. "To the best of my knowledge, what happened to my late husband was tragic but not criminal. My current problem is far more complex."

Watson raised an eyebrow at her as Sherlock continued pacing, not even casting a glance in her direction.

"It's sort of a story, really. There's a gal who has a penchant of getting involved in complex situations, mysteries of a sort. She's not a detective or even a consultant, yet mystery and a certain type of criminal element have a tendency to follow her. It might sound odd, and it is, but she's been experiencing it most of her life so to her it doesn't feel odd, though she's aware intellectually that it is. One day, a man she has had a few conversations with in various mediums, but never face to face, asks to see her. It's a simple request: going out for a drink. They meet and he is all charm and intelligence. Yet something is off. With the life she's led, this girl is wary by nature and perceptive by inheritance and experience. She knows this man is far more than he's let on, and quite dangerous. It's only when he brings up the name of someone from her past that she senses the depth of his malice."

"What did he do to you?" Sherlock murmured. He had stopped pacing when she made mention of the man and his knowledge of her past.

"It's what he's promised to do, should you not be able to unravel the puzzle he set up," she said.

"I don't understand," Watson began. "How did-"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said.

Watson's eyes widened and his jaw dropped before he caught himself and closed it.

"My reaction exactly," Maelin said with a small smile.

"I'd heard of him. Especially after his interactions with you," she added, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "Yet I didn't think myself significant enough to register on his radar. That underestimation may now cost me everything."

"So he sent you to us," John concluded.

"No. But it's what he wants."

"And you gave in to it?" John asked, sounding a bit miffed.

"Not exactly," she said, again shifting her gaze to Sherlock. "Are you not going to tell him anything?"

John turned in the seat to look at Sherlock. "Tell me what?"

Sherlock eyed Maelin, immobile yet with an intensity to his gaze which would have unnerved almost anyone. It did not have that effect on her, however.

"We were friends once," Sherlock said softly, as though trying to distance himself from the very idea.

"Friends?" John looked to Maelin, then back to Sherlock. "Moriarty's after her because she used to be your friend?"

"He's after me because there's information I have on Sherlock that he wants," she said. "Not to mention information on people he wants to form relationships with, but Sherlock is his main focus. You didn't really think he'd given up on you, did you?"

Sherlock had resumed pacing but now he kept his eyes fixed on Maelin. "I thought you said you weren't here as a damsel in distress."

"I'm not."

"This man has threatened to kill John, myself, and I'm assuming you. Fear inducing as that may be, I've never known you to give into the demands of psychopaths."

"No, only sociopaths," she clipped, and Sherlock glared at her. "I'm not here because it's what Moriarty wants. He wants to play another game with you, Sherlock. A game with his rules, and where he holds all the cards. I think you remember how I feel about games like that."

A small smile crossed Sherlock's face. "When you don't like the game, you make up a new one, or you smash all the pieces."

"Higher stakes now," she replied. "I'm already in play. If you decide to join in, there's really no way out. But if you don't, he's assured me of the outcome. I'm being set up for a murder that hasn't been committed yet, and if it goes through I'll never live to see a trial."

"My god," John whispered.

"And if you don't solve the puzzle, whether it's because you can't or simply refuse to," Maelin continued. "The murder happens and your reputation gets tarnished, as well as… well, my demise."

Sherlock eyed her and the unspoken threat reflected in his gaze. This was not only life or death for Maelin, but it might very well be for Sherlock as well, and it most certainly was for his career.

"Two games at once, then," Sherlock commented. "Moriarty's and yours. You really think me capable of playing both."

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't," Maelin smiled.

"Moriarty's game is, I assume, figuring out the murder before it's committed and stopping it from occurring."

"Indeed," she confirmed.

"And yours?"

"Making Moriarty believe you're only doing it for ego, and any information I have on him."

"As opposed to what?" John interjected. He glanced from Maelin to Sherlock and back again.

Sherlock moved into the kitchen, pressing his hands onto the dining table that served as a makeshift chem lab. John looked back to Maelin, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Sherlock," she said softly. She noted how he pressed his hands more firmly onto the table, making the veins stand out, before he released and slumped his shoulders.

"I can't."

Maelin looked as though she'd been slapped.

"What?" John murmured.

Maelin swallowed hard, swallowed the lump which formed instantly.

"Only one at a time, eh?" She tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was almost a whimper. She stood, trying not to shake, and John stood as well.

"Sherlock, what do you mean you can't?" He turned to look at Sherlock who had not moved, would not lift his gaze.

"It was good to see you again, Sherlock," Maelin said. "I mean that, and I hope you believe it."

John put a hand out to stop her from moving. "Sherlock, answer her."

Sherlock shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

"Sherlock," John said, more forcefully.

"It's all right, doctor Watson," Maelin replied softly. "I understand."

John dropped his arm and Maelin moved toward the door.

"I'll tell him he's won," she said as she reached for the handle. "Should put a smile on his face. Farewell, Sherlock." She brusquely opened the door and moved downstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

The door closed downstairs, and Watson immediately moved toward Sherlock, almost growling. "I cannot believe you. Moriarty could kill her. I should think that might concern you just a bit. And even if not, you don't seriously think he won't use this to damage your reputation?"

"You don't understand, John," Sherlock said plaintively. "I simply cannot do what she asks."

"You're right," John said, shrugging. "I don't. I do not understand, Sherlock, why you'll help three nerds with a comic book case, or reinvestigate that man with the ashes, or even bloody Irene Adler, but not her." Sherlock flinched at the mention of Irene's name, but Watson didn't break. "This woman was your friend once. And you can play this off as though she isn't anymore, but I know you. More to the point, obviously so does she. You let her walk out of here to her probable death. Would you have let Mrs. Hudson do that? Lestrade? Molly?"

Sherlock remained silent and John threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. You know what this does, don't you?" He leveled a hand, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "This makes you more like him."

Sherlock's head snapped up; tears welled in his eyes. John was taken aback for a brief moment, but when Sherlock still remained silent he took a step closer.

"He'll think it surprising, no doubt, that you would be this heartless. Maybe that's part of your plan. Maybe it could help you beat him, finally. But it may have just gotten a woman killed. A woman you, at least at one time, cared about. And yet you let her walk out of here without even attempting to help her? It's not that you can't Sherlock. You won't."

"You're right, John," Sherlock snarled. "I will not."

John shook his head. "You're inhuman," he whispered, and turned away.

Grabbing his coat from the hook, John left the flat, taking the stairs two at a time. When he got to the front door, he paused. There was a note pushed through the mail slot, just a folded slip of paper with Sherlock's name scrawled elegantly on the front. Watson cast a glance upstairs, then looked back to the paper. He stepped outside, opening it, and once he'd closed the door began to read.

_I don't expect you to change your mind, and I understand why you refuse to assist me. At least I believe I do. It took a long time for me to forgive you after our last encounter, but I have. And I forgive you again. Please know that whatever happens, you shall never be anything but beloved to me. If you change your mind (a rarity I know) Mycroft knows how to reach me._

_I will always forgive you, and never forget you._

_Lia_

John stared at the note for a moment after he finished reading. Finally, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and took a picture of the note. He then refolded it and slid it back through the mail slot, trying not to make any noise as he did. As he walked down the lane away from the flat, he scrolled through his contact list. When he landed on Mycroft's name he hesitated before taking a deep breath and pressing send.

"Well, well, doctor Watson," the smug tone greeted him. "Your name is not one I expect to see on my caller ID. I hope my little brother hasn't gotten himself into a mess, but why else would you contact me?"

"Maelin Turner," John said without emotion.

There was a pause on the line, and John almost smiled.

"What of her?" Mycroft finally replied.

"She needs help."

"Of that I am aware."

"Sherlock refused her."

Another pause, this one did not make John want to smile.

"I'll send a car for you."

"Not at the flat," John replied. "I'm going to the cafe in the gardens. You can send one there."

"Very well," Mycroft said. "One hour."

The line went dead and John sighed, sticking the phone in his pocket. He walked down the street, checking over his shoulder occasionally to ensure Sherlock wasn't following him.

The car dropped Watson off at a warehouse, not unlike half a dozen Mycroft had him brought to on other occasions.

"Do you own all these, or does no one care that you hold clandestine meetings in their facilities?" John said as he moved toward Mycroft.

Sherlock's older brother leaned against a sturdy folding table on which stood a stack of papers and a Tiffany-style lamp. "A bit of both, really," Mycroft smiled. "But that's not why you're here."

"Why?" John simply asked.

Mycroft studied John's face for a moment before beginning. "When Sherlock began interacting with Irene Adler I knew something was working inside of him. A connection of sorts, unlike any that he is used to. Yet he never fully trusted her, and would not have. You, doctor Watson, he trusts and cares for, but you're too emotional... sentimental, to use his favored word. Whatever connection Sherlock might be capable of developing with another human being that is emotional, trusting, and potentially physical is tied to Maelin Turner."

"I'm sorry," John said, shaking his head. "Are you saying he was in love with her?"

Mycroft smiled. "You've said yourself he doesn't feel things that way. Perhaps you're right. However, whatever equivalent there is for Sherlock, if he ever felt it for someone, it was for her."

"What happened?"

"They grew up," Mycroft said with a touch of sadness in his tone. "Betrayals occurred on both sides. Their relationship could get a bit tumultuous and tempers flared... then one day she was gone. Sherlock never said much about her after that. I didn't expect we'd ever see her again. Evidently neither did she."

"I don't quite understand, though," John said. "If this all happened years ago and Sherlock doesn't have adverse feelings for her anymore..."

"Then why refuse to help an old friend in taking down your greatest enemy?"

"Exactly."

"Well, my assumption would be either there's something Sherlock discerned about her story - something false or that she withheld, or..."

"Or what?" John pressed.

Mycroft sighed. "Or, unwilling as I am to believe it, Sherlock does still care for her and has no idea how to reconcile such emotions with the rest of the situation."

"You mean he'd let her die rather than help her because... because she might die anyway?"

"Guilt is not an emotion with which my brother is very familiar. If he does still care for her in some respect, the guilt he feels at letting her go off on her own he may think will be less than the guilt incurred should he try to assist her and fail."

John shook his head. "He's not that heartless. He can't be. He wouldn't let that happen to me, even to you."

"But we are not Maelin Turner, doctor Watson."

"He still helped Irene Adler," John continued.

"And look how that ended. I'm not saying it is the reason, as I'm not entirely convinced it is, but if Sherlock has no other motive to refuse her..." Mycroft trailed off briefly. "There are limits to the assistance I can provide her, and I cannot afford to have James Moriarty inciting a vendetta against those I must answer to should my assistance prove unsatisfactory."

"You will help her, though," John said and smiled when a flicker crossed Mycroft's gaze. "You already have. And whether Sherlock helps or not, you'll do more - as much as you can until it seriously jeopardizes your position. And if I help her-"

"I don't recommend it, John," Mycroft finally cut in.

"But if I start to assist her, and you as well, then Sherlock -"

Mycroft began to laugh. "It's a dangerous game, doctor. You knew this woman for only a few moments, and you're ready to engage with her on the battlefield against Moriarty himself?"

John straightened himself, standing tall and proud. Mycroft's laughter faded as he regarded John, then he smiled, genuine and appreciative.

"Sometimes I don't believe even Sherlock gives you enough credit for your bravery."

"He'd probably think of it as me falling for the damsel in distress trap, but it's not."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "It's setting him up for a trap. You realize both your lives will be at risk if you agree to help Ms. Turner?"

"She's apprised us of that, yes."

Mycroft nodded. "Then what are you waiting for?" He handed John his mobile, already set on Sherlock's number. John took the phone, cast Mycroft a glance, then pressed send.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed as he answered. "This is not the best-"

"We're helping her, Sherlock," John interjected.

"John?" Sherlock questioned.

"Mycroft and I, with or without you, we're helping her. So go ahead now and rant and tell me all the reasons this is a poor idea. In fact," he pressed the speaker icon and held the phone between himself and Mycroft. "Tell us both. Get it out now, and then either shut the bloody hell up and get out of the way, find some other case to do on your own, or help us."

There was a brief pause, then Sherlock said softly. "Don't."

John shook his head as though Sherlock could see him. "You can't get out of it that easy, Sherlock. She needs our help. Your help. I saw her face when you told her no. If that did not affect you, then you really don't have a heart - and if it did, you better help her or Moriarty has already won and that heart really will be burned out of you."

Another pause, then Sherlock replied. "Very well."

Mycroft and John turned their heads at approaching footsteps. From around the corner came Maelin, followed by Sherlock. Her eyes were glistening, though she had not cried. She moved straight for John and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear before pulling away.

John stood aghast, his hand still holding out the phone as Mycroft took it from him and placed it in his pocket. When Maelin pulled away from John, she looked to Mycroft and gave him a soft smile. "And thank you, Mycroft."

He smiled at her with true brotherly affection, "My pleasure, Maelin. I will do what I can."

She nodded to him, knowing the import of what he did not add to his words.

Sherlock hung back, a few paces away from them all, and when John looked to him as Maelin and Mycroft conversed, he saw a flash in Sherlock's gaze as he looked at her. John said nothing, but repressed a small smile.


End file.
